that jesus man had his limbs plucked off a tomato plant in immokalee
after being nailed to a tree in brazil that sister dorothy couldn’t yank him down from.
no, nailed to a forest.
no, nailed to people.
what’s the difference?
(vines and branches entangled with power and preservation, constricted by profit margins, or thrashed aside by boys playing explorer in the woods with wooden swords)
either way, the god-man limply hangs from the backs of women plucking red-ripe cherries from coffee trees in ethiopia,
east of the place where Jesus’ skin is a rich cacao brown,
drenched in hershey’s chocolate.
we bend down to kiss his feet and then wipe them clean with our hair in order to make him white again.